


the floodlights on my face

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Whip It (2009)
Genre: F/F, Fall Fandom Free For All, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week in the life of Iron Maven</p>
            </blockquote>





	the floodlights on my face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Под светом прожектора](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2499386) by [kapitanova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kapitanova/pseuds/kapitanova)



Some Mondays, Ruth rolls in to her day job looking close to death. She stares into the abyss of paperwork and the company secretary sneaks her coffee from the boss's machine, holds on to the door frame with perfectly lacquered nails and asks if Ruth's got any new bruises. Those Mondays, Ruth hits the couch with ibuprofen and an ice pack and watches (and re-watches) DVDs on loan. She's got the first seven seasons of _SVU_ , _Breaking Bad_ (which Johnny swears she'll love; if she doesn't she can come over and use the tub any time she wants. She'll do that anyway.) and _The L Word_ (which she's already seen, thought was ridiculous, but okay, sexy), left in her trunk by Eva with a shoulder punch and a wink. Other Mondays, the ones _not_ after a bout weekend, she GTLs, minus the T. There's sure to be at least one other TXRD girl at the gym, doing her best to keep up, keep in shape, but Ruth's not interested in any of them. She sets her playlist to blaring and steals a bike for an hour, doing 2-minutes-on-30-seconds-off sprints, sucking water from the fountain for a solid minute before she moves on to weights.

Tuesdays are league practices. She changes clothes at work and rolls out fifteen minutes before close. She'll probably get fired soon, but, okay whatever. They can find someone else to file their shit. On Tuesdays she pushes herself, knowing that the other girls are watching. The younger, prettier, flashier girls who have something going for them other than five years of busting ass and forehead wrinkles. The Bliss Fucking Cavendars of Austin. (Bliss, who thinks she's hot shit now that the Hurl Scouts aren't lingering in last place. Bliss, who pushes herself, too, occasionally looking Ruth's way, occasionally smiling.) She pushes herself, because if she's not the best someone else will be. (They drink after practice, dehydrated, sweaty and stinking. She doesn't talk about her day job, and after two beers she's done. A little bit of her heart ripped out every time she leaves, counting down the hours until she wakes up for work.)

On Wednesdays, Ruth drags ass. The bosses yell at her, and she yells back. Five o'clock clock out from the file ring of hell, six o'clock clock in at the Brewery (coffee house, cafe, and bar; she ties her hair back and snaps on a black apron). She's at her worst, needing recovery sleep but needing money more, so of course Bliss is there, without fail, at the corner table every god damn Wednesday. She's the sort they hate here, sipping her coffee slow, leaving her tab open over shift change, her laptop plugged in to the wall and a book open in her lap. Every inch of her, relaxed and smug, saying _I'm not seventeen any more. I'm on my own. I'm doing this._ (Ruth ignores her until at least three cups buzz through her system, remembering the first time they met here, little Ruthless's eyes going wide, that quick little swallow, the way her voice cracked when she answered Ruth's question with "Uh, I'm gonna have to look at the menu.") Two and a half cups in, Bliss lifts her hand and smiles. "If you don't mind, Ruth, I'd like a refill." It's creepily personal, and Bliss wields the knowledge of Iron Maven's first name like a knife. Glinting.

Thursday. Her saving grace. A half-day (unfortunately, the morning half) at Alexander & Sons, tidying their mistakes and filing away all of the cases they've won, the one's they've lost. An afternoon nap, wrapped in nothing but a comforter, curtains not doing much to block out the daylight (but she sleeps anyway, she always does). Thursdays are Holy Rollers practices. Thursdays are heaven and hell, all smashed in to three hours on the track. Thursdays; when her mind goes (blissfully) blank and years of instinct and training kick in and she's queen again. Her girls -- her sisters (and Ruth's not usually one for sorority-sentiment) -- breathe deep as one, mixing sweat (and likely, blood and tears), skating close until they don't know where to find the line between them. (Ruth's body is on fire when she gets home, her skin sweat-dried and gritty, craving junk food and needing sleep. Her eyes won't shut for hours, the blood humming inside of her far too loud.)

Friday. Saturday. Sunday. There's bout weekends, and there's off weekends. She flies high and hard and fast, but the cat still needs to be fed, laundry done, dishes washed, bills paid. And sometimes, there's Bliss at her door with a flimsy excuse ("I was in the neighborhood, and...", "So I was thinking we could watch this bout footage, and...", "Regionals are this weekend and you're always saying that we can learn a lot from watching, and...") that drifts off when Ruth opens her door instead of slamming in Bliss's face. Relief and something else on Bliss's face, Ruth's arms crossed, because what else is there to protect her now? ("Look," Bliss said, the first time, "I don't hate you. I don't hate any of you, but I don't hate you specifically. And not that it matters but I'm eighteen now, and I don't care if that's still," she counted in her head, "okay, a lot younger than you--"

"Thanks."

"--but I can't stop thinking about you, okay? And you've got a lot to teach me, right? And I'm a fast learner. Really fast."

"Look yourself. _This_ isn't what you want," Ruth said, the first time, and closed the door, breathing against it until the second knock came and, _what was she supposed to do?_ , she opened the door.) Because Bliss knows her first name, knows how to slip past her on the track, knows where she works (on Wednesdays and sometimes Sundays, if they need a fill), knows what kind of beer she prefers (cheap, cold), knows that showing up at Ruth's door leads to the kitchen, the living room floor, the comforter tossed from the bed, clothing ripped or gently discarded, and marks on skin that don't come from the track. Because Bliss knows how much they both want this, knows that when she points at _The L Word_ on Ruth's shelf, arching an eyebrow, that when Ruth punches her in the shoulder -- hard -- she means _I love you, just a little bit. Just enough._

And _I'll still beat you next time._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [These Are Days (Cut the Floodlights remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/411796) by [theleaveswant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant)




End file.
